Luke Cage: Teenage Years
by shenandoahok
Summary: Luke-in his teenage years-ends up in a boy's home and has to find a way to expose the evil fight club crippling young men.
1. Chapter 1

Luke Cage

by

Shenandoah

The arm of the black chair wobbled every time his grandmother sat in it, and it was her favorite, hand-me-down piece of furniture in the old, nineteenth-century Victorian home. Carl, an African American teenager approximately sixteen-years-old, loved his grandmother, and he wanted to do whatever he had to do in order to fix that old, dilapidated chair. It didn't mean much to him, that chair, but he knew how his grandmother felt about the rundown piece of furniture. It had some kind of significance in her life that went back many years-sixty plus years or more. Her father owned the chair, and he purchased the thing from an antique dealer in southern Oklahoma during the Vietnam War era.

A troubled young man, disregarded by his Momma, moved in with his grandmother around the age of six; and even though Carl appreciated her for taking him into her home, he longed to know his Momma. Angered, he sat in his room on many nights questioning his worth as a human being because of the way she abandoned him. That was probably the reason Carl felt the need to fix that rickety chair because he wanted his grandmother to always want him around. There was nothing more painful to him than the day his Momma decided to leave him; and if he lost his grandmother, he couldn't imagine what would happen to his life. People seemed to leave when things were broken; so, the quicker he fixed the chair, the quicker he could feel normal.

It was around the end of May in twenty-fifteen, when Carl purchased the parts needed in order to tighten the screws on his grandmother's ramshackle rocking chair. He worked a little job at Harvey's Grocery Store bagging groceries, and the majority of people tipped well. He had spent all week thinking about his grandmother's old, wooden chair, and was elated that he finally had enough money to buy the screws. When he came into the living room, his grandmother sat quietly in the chair. She didn't say a word, even though he shook her by the shoulder several times. He thought it was odd that she didn't murmur a word because she usually slept light. The slightest bump or sound brought her running, but now. When he placed the back of his left hand on her forehead, he realized that she was dead, and it sent a rage through his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Carl sat in the living room with the television turned down low, and the thought of his deceased grandmother weighed heavy on his conscious. She passed away nearly two months earlier, but the hurt of losing her remained fresh in his mind. Every time he ate his repast, it left him with feelings of sorrow because he missed his grandmother's creamy mashed potatoes with garlic flavored gravy. She had a knack for different types of gravy, but he liked her garlic gravy the best. He didn't know how long the pain of losing her would last, but it was hard to take. The only time he felt a little relief from the pains of losing his beloved grandmother was when he was at work; otherwise, he often cried himself asleep. Unfortunately, he started to hang around a group of unsavory characters hell-bent on wrecking the city, but he often overlooked their pettiness. He knew the crowd of miscreants in his mist were a bunch of bad guys, but they gave him the respect he wanted. The Rivals-a local gang-became his new family, and they gave him the comfort he needed in order to work through his grandmother's untimely death. But unlike the Rivals, Carl didn't have the propensity to do bad things like robbing, maiming, and killing folks. He had that nagging voice in his head that constantly told him to go right instead of left, up instead of down, and so on. He needed the gang in order to lift up his spirits about his deceased grandmother, but he didn't want to hurt people in the process.

Like many newbies to the gang scene, Carl used his skills of persuasion to sell drugs on the busy city streets of inner-city New York City. Young men from the upper East Side of New York City always wanted a bag of high-quality weed or two for their little sex parties. Carl knew exactly where to stand in order to attract some of the better-paying customers from the Upper East Side. He sold drugs to young men and women driving some of the nicest cars in the city, and the police monitored all the activity without saying a word. At least one black and white sat adjacent to where he stood and watched closely every move he made. As long as the cops received their cut of the illicit money, they didn't care about the rest. They didn't care about the heroin that the more established drug dealers sold or the enormous amount of drug overdoses. Every day a meat wagon hauled another drug-related death out of the neighborhood, and nobody questioned the dismal situation. Unfortunately, he couldn't escape his conscience constantly telling him to extricate himself from the gangs and the drugs. It was the voice of his beloved grandmother playing repeatedly in his mind every time he made a sale.

One of the ways he stayed out of trouble during the day was to hold a minimum wage job working at one of the local fast-food eateries. He didn't find much pride flipping burgers over a hot, unforgiving grill or frying french fries while hovering over a vat of hot, boiling death, but it helped mask the wads of cash he made selling illicit drugs. Every outlawed activity in the city was a money generator on the black market, and the crime bosses loved that. It was the major criminals in the city behind making cigarettes illegal. Once the government decided to outlaw cigarettes, it became a multi-billion dollar business in the underbelly. The majority of the members of his gang worked a menial job like sweeping floors or fast-food or something that didn't require much brain power. They needed the jobs as a way to take suspicion off their drug dealing ways and other illicit activities like stripping parts off of cars. After he spent a little time roaming the halls of his school, he went to the fast food restaurant for a few hours and then sold drugs for a few hours. Sometimes he sold drugs in the back of the restaurant, but he had to be cautious about doing that. HIs customers would send him a text message that read, "See ya," and he knew within five minutes he'll have a buyer in back of the building to make a quick purchase. It was the easiest money he ever made, but he still couldn't escape the guilt that came with it.

A slavish job like flipping burgers and frying fries wasn't something that made Carl proud; but since he was only fifteen-years-old, it wasn't a bad deal. He tried not to waste his money on a bunch of gewgaw like some of the other petty dealers did. He felt sorry for guys like Jerome who were in their thirties, wives, and kids, but couldn't do anything else but flip burgers. Jerome worked mainly in the back and had the sole responsibility of ensuring the grease traps stayed clean and dumping the french fry oil at least once a week. His dark arms had discoloration because of a grease accident that happened to him a few years earlier. No insurance, no money, no nothing left him indigent after the burns. He fed his family with the leftovers from the restaurant every night, and his kids looked like elephants. Nobody wanted to hire an ex-felon except for the low-end food service industry, and Jerome often voiced his opinion of society in a loud, negative manner. "These fuckers won't give a brutha a chance!"

Every day Carl thought about life in the big city but didn't have a clue what he planned on doing after high school. Some of his classmates talked about joining the Airforce, but Carl didn't have any plans to enter into that graveling lifestyle. Ever since the wars, the soldiers often complained about their quality of life, and he knew the only honorable life for a soldier was in death. He wiped down the tables, took out the trash, washed his hands repeatedly, and then he watched Jerome brooding over the grill. He was a pitiable man, Carl thought, but somehow he mustered up enough courage to smile at the customers. Carl couldn't stand to look at the smiling Jerome any longer and took a fifteen-minute break resting in the back of the store. He watched a couple of blackbirds tear at a piece of discarded meat, and he wondered if birds ended up with heart disease too.

Willis Stryker, approximately sixteen-years-old, walked into the restaurant, and Carl nodded to the young man, and they both met in the rear of the building. Carl gave him a small bag of burgers, and Willis ate them rather quickly. He barely took time to chew the junk food, and Carl didn't seem to pay too much attention to the way his friend ate.

"So, what's happening later?" Carl asked.

"Finding somewhere to hang," Willis said, "Thinking about hooking up with the old girl."

"Who? Reva?"

"Yeah. How you know?" Willis asked. He stuffed the last piece of the hamburger in his mouth and appeared to have a little trouble swallowing it. He jumped up and down for a second, and then bent over as if he was going to throw up.

"Everybody knows you like that girl." Carl looked over at Willis for a second. "You okay?" Carl asked with a worried look on his face.

Willis shook his head as if everything was okay, and then said, "Damn! That last piece went down rough."

"Told you before not to eat so fast," Carl said.

Everybody that knew Willis knew he liked Reva more than any sixteen-year-old should like a girl. Even Carl had a special girl that he liked more than he should, but he never thought he should pursue Cindy Lee, an Asian girl from China. He didn't know what he liked about her, but she was one of the smartest girls in school. The mere fact that her brains attracted him more than her beauty made him some kind of sapiosexual, but he didn't mind. It didn't matter because he didn't have any desire to disrupt her innocent life with his erratic behavior. And any drug dealer in any town lived a life in disarray and utter chaos because he was always looking over his shoulder. Even though the money flowed like water, the cops were notorious for arresting at least one drug dealer a night just to let the people of the city know they were making inroads in the drug community. If the community knew what the cops were doing, they'd call it a travesty. Cops, drugs, and dealers, regardless of how it looked, it was all a sham, a facade because the real criminals resided on Wall Street.

Later that evening, approximately around ten-thirty, Carl sat on the curb in front of his house with a small baggie of drugs in his right pocket. The white fence that surrounded his grandmother's house had a layer of bricks as the base. They were white bricks that Carl kept spit-shined in order to give his house the same appearance it had when his grandmother lived there. He kept a backup supply of drugs underneath a few of the loose bricks in case the cops decided to bust him. As long as he kept one small baggy on his body, he didn't have to worry about a long stay in the juvenile system. Willis, on the other hand, liked to take unnecessary risk, and six months ago the cops caught him with two baggies of drugs. He ended up spending four months in the system, and cost him a lot of sway with Sonny Caputo.

Sonny ran the drug business in Harlem, and he wasn't the kind of guy who appreciated a stupid drug dealer. Some of the guys called Sonny by his nickname, "The Hammer," but those were the guys closest to him. If he didn't like a person, then his name was Mister Caputo. The majority of his foot soldiers referred to him as Sonny, but the guys that stood by his side referred to him as "The Hammer." Willis tried his best over the last few months to move into Sonny's inner circle, but he hadn't earned enough sales to be on that level. That was the reason Willis kept more than one bag of drugs on his person because he wanted to be the best salesman.

Carl sat on the steps leading up to his house when a scrawny, pallid looking woman limped over to him. Her sallow appearance made him not want to sell her anything because she looked ill, and he knew her. Her name was Shelly Caputo, the daughter of the notorious Sonny Caputo, but he disowned her after she married the son of his most hated foe. Unfortunately, her husband died in a violent altercation nearly three years earlier, and she fell into a state of chronic drug use. She wore a tattered, white dress with dirt stains on the backside. Her rotten front teeth looked irreparable; and when she approached Carl, he automatically said, "Don't sell the hard stuff, Shelly. I'm a gateway supplier."

With a scratchy sounding voice and a dribble of slobber falling off her bottom lip, she asked, "Whatcha got?"

"Weed." He dug the baggy out of his right pocket. "You really need to go back to your father."

She gave him a downcast look, and then said, "Sonny ain't my daddy."

As soon as he showed her the baggy, the cop car from across the street lit up like a Christmas tree. Within seconds, he was in the backseat of the car, and on his way to the center.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

New York's juvenile system churned out more criminals than a bakery churned out bread, and every high rolling thug in the ghetto could consent to that. The majority of dealers never agreed on anything, but they agreed that the juvenile system never truly helped one child to escape prison or poverty. The correctional facility that held Carl stood about a mile from the Canadian border, and the majority of prison guards were women. The New York correctional system decided that women had the ability to give teenage boys the mothering they needed to guide them to become better citizens. It was a new plan, a courageous plan, but nobody knew if it would work or not.

The outside of the facility had the traditional razor wire, guard tower, and several guards with high powered rifles. They used high powered binoculars to keep an eye on everything that moved on and off the compound. Their uniforms looked like the old uniforms the German Nazi's wore during World War II, but they had womanly curves. When Carl hopped off the bus in front of the institution, the first thing he did was focused in on the guard towers. He knew the institution was serious about security, and ensuring nobody escaped the facility alive; but at the same time, he immediately took notice that all the guards were women. He had been in several facilities in the past, but he had never been in a juvenile center full of women.

All the boys who got off the trucks had bright orange uniforms with DOC written across the back; and as soon as they walked through the narrow passageway into the facility, the guards made them strip completely naked. It was a contraband shakedown, a formality before the bed assignments. Carl didn't realize the women had marched them into an empty room with solid concrete walls, floor, and ceiling because he had his mind focused on his old neighborhood. The room had only one exit-which was the same as the entrance, and a burly looking guard named Officer Kerr stood by it. The floor had several drains, and he immediately realized what the women planned on doing. When the young men stepped into the concrete room without any clothes, the guards turned on the powerful water hoses and sprayed the boys clean. The water caused several of the kids to drop to the ground, curl into a ball, and pray. The water was meant to shake any contraband or weapons loose, and it did a fantastic job at it too. Several knives ended up on the bare floor, and a small bag of the crack cocaine was in the middle of the floor. The guards didn't ask who owned the baggy, but they dared for one of the kids to pick it up. The redheaded guard with the narrow eyes and smushed face gave the group of men a daunting stare as she held the water hose.

"Go ahead and pick it up," she screamed. She pointed the hose towards Carl, but he didn't flinch. The last thing he wanted to do was take a direct hit from the water hose, but the guard with the red hair didn't like boys. She bit her bottom lip as if she anticipated one of the boys picking up the drugs, and then the other guards told her to calm down before somebody ended up getting hurt. Brooding, Carl gave her a long stare and knew instinctively that she was the ruffian of the guards.

Carl didn't have a clue on how he would survive four months inside of the facility, but he tried to make the best of a horrible situation. When he arrived to the open bay with all the beds, he immediately grabbed the farthest bed from the entrance. He didn't know why he wanted to be at the very end, but he thought the distance from the entrance would give him the ability to hide things better. He had written a list of things he planned on doing as soon as the state let him out of the home, and the first thing on the list was to ask Cindy Lee out on a date. He thought about her the entire time the guards sprayed him with the water hose. Her face helped him through a tough situation; but at the same time, he had to realize that she didn't know he existed. Repeatedly, he kept telling himself to talk to Cindy during school, but he never had the courage to say anything to her. Drug dealer, thief, fighter-all those tough man jobs never gave him the courage to talk to the one girl he actually liked.

The bed had some folded blankets at the foot of it with two sheets and a pillow. He knew the rules before he stepped into the facility, but had to listen to Officer Kerr talk about policy. The first rule was to keep the bed made at all times; and when asleep, the right leg had to be placed on the floor. It was the first time he had to endure a rule like that, and he found it disturbing. With all the frustrations and stresses that he had to endure on a daily basis, he found it excruciating to comply with the sleeping rule. Every hour, a guard roamed through the bays in order to ensure the residents had their right foot on the floor.

"Carl! Get your damn right foot on the floor." Officer Kerr said with an angry voice. She stood over Carl as he tried to sleep, and shook him a few times until his right foot slid from underneath the wool blanket. He placed it on the floor until the surly officer left, and then placed it back underneath the covers. "Bitch!"

The next morning the guards marched the kids into the dining facility and fed them some eggs, bacon, and a hard biscuit. It wasn't much food, but enough to sustain them. The new prisoners sat apart from the old prisoners and tried to eat their breakfast quietly without any problems. Carl noticed several of the older prisoners watching his table but didn't make any inappropriate gestures to start trouble. He kept his head down and continued to eat slowly. Suddenly, he noticed an older prisoner by the name of Two Fist Reggie-a blockhead stocky fellow-hovering over him. Two Fist had his knuckles pressed against the table, and stood like a pit bull. "You gonna eat that biscuit?" he said as he tapped Carl's biscuit repeatedly.

Suddenly, Carl took his metal tray and whacked Reggie across the face. The blow sent the stocky dude over the table, and all the other inmates formed a circle around them. The guards stood quietly in the corners of the room without intervening in the battle. The inmates picked up the table, moved it out the way, and the two opponents stood face to face in the manmade circle. Carl could feel his heart racings but knew he had to defeat Reggie in order to gain the respect of the other kids. He could see the guards in the background making bets, and he thought it was strange that the women were so callous. He expected that kind of behavior from the male guards at the other facilities, but the women were supposed to be motherly-so he thought.

Reggie jumped into a fight stance and had a bit of blood dripping from his nose. He ran towards Carl at full force, and then the younger inmate kindly slid out of the way. Reggie crashed into the group of boys, and then rushed back to the center of the circle. Reggie tried to attack him again, but Carl quickly hit him in the throat, and the kid fell to the ground struggling to breathe.

"I thought Two Fist was tough," one of the kids said laughingly. "What a wimp."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sonny Caputo lived in a quiet cul de sac in upstate New York. He had a modest home made out of red bricks, a white fence, and a nineteen eighties Oldsmobile parked in the driveway. The upper portion of his head was large and wide, and in some ways-intimidating. Even with his deformed head, he didn't have any problems with the ladies. He worked diligently planting flowers in the small garden in front of his house. More often than not, he worked on keeping his lawn free from debris, trimmed, and maintained for all to see. On the surface, Sonny appeared to be nothing more than a good, quiet neighbor to all the people that saw him every day. The man never touched a cigarette in his entire life; and when one of his neighbors once offered him a cigarette, he gave a two-hour lecture on how they did damage to the environment.

His neighbors knew him as the man with the culinary gifts of a god, and Sonny knew how to make all the great Italian dishes. He had a recipe for a meatball that had a sweet tangy garlicky taste that caused all the ladies on the block to rave about his dishes. He could spend an hour discussing the importance of using real butter in all Italian recipes that kept all the women in his neighborhood intrigued. The ladies often said, when talking about Sonny, "He's God's rays shining down on us." More often than not, Sonny finished a meal with some of the sweetest Italian confections in history.

Unfortunately, the citizens of Harlem didn't know anything about Sonny Caputo, at least not the Sonny Caputo who lived in upstate. They knew Sonny "The Hammer" Caputo, a notorious gangster that ran the underbelly of Harlem with a ruthless style of a third world dictator. Sonny didn't drive just any old car, but a car fortified with armor, tinted windows, a phone, and golden spinners. He used runners in order to carry out his dirty work, so his enemies never knew what he looked like. Only the people in his inner circle ever saw his face, and they were too afraid to ever talk about it.

Willis Stryker stood in front of Sonny wearing some baggy pants that barely stayed up on his hips. Willis-in those days, wore tons of jewelry in order to show-off his wealth, and that kind of gaudy behavior disgusted the drug lord. He had on some of the most expensive street shoes that money could buy, and Sonny couldn't stand that kind of frivolous behavior. Sonny looked at Willis's exaggerated appearance and felt a sickness in his stomach.

"What the hell do you want?" Sonny asked in a bitter tone. He had a grimace on his face as if he wanted to kill the young teenager.

"To work directly for you, the man," he said in a shaky tone.

Sonny slammed his hands on the desk. "What did I tell you about your appearance?" He looked up at the kid for a minute, and then said, "You attract the cops dressed like that."

"Like what?" He asked.

"Like a damn hooligan," he said, "My boys wear business suits, work day jobs, and present themselves as professionals."

"So, if I change my appearance ..."  
"It's more than that, fool," he said, "Your boy, Carl, now that's somebody I could use in my inner circle. Reserved, quiet, and knows how to handle business."

"But he's in jail!"

"Yeah. Set up by a crackhead that I need you to take care of," he said with a devious grin. He slid a picture of the druggie that set up Carl, and then said in a whisper, "Buy a suit, kill this trash, and I'll think about promoting you."

Willis walked out of Sonny's office with the photograph of a dirty blonde, white woman no more than twenty-two years of age, and wondered if he had the gumption to carry out the task. He stared at the photo as he walked down the narrow steps, and realized the girl in the picture was Shelly Caputo, Sonny's daughter. At first, he thought about heading up the stairs and asking the old man why he wanted his own flesh and blood dead. He thought about killing plenty of people, but always thought God would hate him for it. Shelly spent the majority of her time near Carl's house seething for her next fix of meth or crack or whatever drug she needed to stave off the pain for another day. He didn't see Sonny's daughter as having any morality left in her because she gave up her child for a fix of crack last year. He knew the entire story of how Sonny had her husband killed, but the majority of people marked it off as business as usual. At the same time, he couldn't help but think of Sonny as a petty man for wanting his own flesh dead. It seemed like a waste of life.

Willis knew exactly what he needed to do in order to kill Shelly, but he didn't want to do it. He purchased a gun recently on the black market that couldn't be traced back to him in case some guys rolled up on him the wrong way. The streets of New York City weren't the place for the gun shy, and he needed the protection because his little corner drug store made twenty thousand dollars a week. He had a happening corner and didn't want anybody taking it from him. Repeatedly, he played in his mind of walking up to Shelly, pointing the gun, and pulling the trigger. Unfortunately, every time he pulled the trigger in his mind, he felt sorry for the woman. He felt sorry because he grew up believing only the living could find redemption; and if he killed her, she couldn't make the bad things right. He knew the lady hadn't been peripatetic because she stayed in the same old hollow-out apartment building that many of the local drug heads lived in for the last year. At the same time, he had a hard time killing a stranger because he didn't have any animus against the woman-even though she set up Carl, his closest friend. The idea of killing a stranger disturbed him on all levels imaginable. If he killed this drug addict daughter of Sonny Caputo, he knew it would change his life forever.

The apartment building where the druggies lived was called the Harlem Harbinger or the HH. The majority of people called the apartments the HH, and it wasn't a place for decent people to live. The owners of the building were a group of soothsayers from Louisiana who settled in New York nearly one hundred years earlier. Everybody in the complex received some kind of government stipend; they used the taxpayer's money to buy drugs in order to feed their habits. When they didn't have money, they usually committed petty crimes around the city in order to feed their drug habits.

Willis walked up to the apartment building, and a group of the druggies sat on the front lawn smoking and drinking. Shelly sat on the park bench in front of the apartment building in her raggedy clothes. She had an abundance of sores that ran up and down her pallid looking legs, and bloody sores on her face. She looked like a person with only a few hours left to live. Willis walked up to her, took out a pack of cigarettes, and handed her one cigarette. She snatched it out of his hand, lit it, and took a huge puff off it.

"That taste so good," she murmured. She took a few more puffs, and then asked, "You work for that bastard Sonny?"

He could barely stare her in the face because of the bleeding sores. "Yeah. He doesn't like you too much."

"The feeling is mutual," she said with a snicker. "Bastard killed my husband."

"So, that's why you're always high?" Willis inquired. He tapped the gun several times in his right pocket, and he saw Shelly's demeanor change abruptly. A look of fear came over her as if she knew what Willis was there for.

"He sent you to kill me?" She asked with a grimace on her face. Tears raced down her pale, bumpy cheeks as she continued to puff on the cigarette.

"You're very perceptive," he said.

She looked over at the other druggies sitting against the wall and tried to smile, but she couldn't. "Sonny owns all y'all," she said with a grimace on her face. "I'll be dead. I'll be free, but what about you?"

"What about me!"

"You'll always be a slave," she said angrily. "If it's not a slave to Sonny, then you'll be a slave to the next drug lord."

Willis laughed. "One day I'll be the Sonny of Harlem."

She started to giggle. "Death will come for you the way it has for me," she said, "You kill me ... somebody will kill you."

Willis grabbed Shelly by the arm and threw her to the ground. She tried to kick him, but he grabbed her by the left leg, and drug her into the middle of the street. "Walk your ass," he said aloud." Pointing to Carl's empty house, he said, "We're going over there."

"What for?" She whined.

"'Cause that's where I'm going to take care this business."

He opened up the door, threw her inside, and watched her as she squirmed. Deep down inside his soul, he knew he didn't have the ability to kill her, so he threw her into the backroom. It didn't have any windows in that room, and it was a good place for Shelly to detox. He tore the tattered clothes off her body, and she stood in the windowless room completely bare. She had sores all over her body and was hideous to the sight. At some point in the last week, he had placed a heavy duty lock and latch on the door in order to keep any occupant in the room for an extended period of time. The small bed set against the wall with a plain blanket on it that she could use for sleep. After four hours of being in the room, she started going through a few minor withdrawals from the meth. Since she used meth mostly, he didn't think she would be too much of a problem. He bought her a sloppy hamburger from the corner store with some french fries, and she ate them as if she was starving. He placed them in the room where she sat against the wall in nothing but some pink panties.

"You gonna get me some clothes?" She asked.

He took some ointment out of his pocket, placed it on her sores, and she didn't seem to mind too much. Staring at the wall, she only winced a few times as he added the salve to the sores on her back. She continued to eat her hamburger but didn't say too much to him. Each day she seemed a little heavier and stronger than the previous day, and her skin slowly healed after a few weeks. The steady diet of real food, rest, and topical medicines had her looking like a young woman, but he still didn't release her from the locked room.

"I told your pops that you're dead," he said with a stern look on his face. "That means you gotta leave New York."

"Leave New York?" She asked with a confused look on her face. "Where will I go."

He sat on the floor in front of her, and she had a dejected look on her face. "The world is a big place."

"Maybe so, but I still want meth every day," she said, "The only thing that keeps me from it is you."

He laughed. "I sell the stuff." He put his hands through her dirty blonde hair, and then said, "You don't want to be in my life."

"Then why did you save me?" She asked softly.

"'Cause I couldn't bring myself to kill you," he said, "Even if you did try to sell your kid."

"You're one of those guys?" She asked.

"What's that?" He asked.

"You're one of those guys who think they can save the world."


End file.
